(א) וַיַּקְהֵ֣ל מֹשֶׁ֗ה אֶֽת־כׇּל־עֲדַ֛ת בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֲלֵהֶ֑ם אֵ֚לֶּה הַדְּבָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּ֥ה יְהֹוָ֖ה לַעֲשֹׂ֥ת אֹתָֽם׃ (ב) שֵׁ֣שֶׁת יָמִים֮ תֵּעָשֶׂ֣ה מְלָאכָה֒ וּבַיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֗י יִהְיֶ֨ה לָכֶ֥ם קֹ֛דֶשׁ שַׁבַּ֥ת שַׁבָּת֖וֹן לַיהֹוָ֑ה כׇּל־הָעֹשֶׂ֥ה ב֛וֹ מְלָאכָ֖ה יוּמָֽת׃ (ג) לֹא־תְבַעֲר֣וּ אֵ֔שׁ בְּכֹ֖ל מֹשְׁבֹֽתֵיכֶ֑ם בְּי֖וֹם הַשַּׁבָּֽת׃ {פ}
(ד) וַיֹּ֣אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֔ה אֶל־כׇּל־עֲדַ֥ת בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל לֵאמֹ֑ר זֶ֣ה הַדָּבָ֔ר אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּ֥ה יְהֹוָ֖ה לֵאמֹֽר׃ (ה) קְח֨וּ מֵֽאִתְּכֶ֤ם תְּרוּמָה֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה כֹּ֚ל נְדִ֣יב לִבּ֔וֹ יְבִיאֶ֕הָ אֵ֖ת תְּרוּמַ֣ת יְהֹוָ֑ה זָהָ֥ב וָכֶ֖סֶף וּנְחֹֽשֶׁת׃
(ד) וַיֹּ֣אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֔ה אֶל־כׇּל־עֲדַ֥ת בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל לֵאמֹ֑ר זֶ֣ה הַדָּבָ֔ר אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּ֥ה יְהֹוָ֖ה לֵאמֹֽר׃ (ה) קְח֨וּ מֵֽאִתְּכֶ֤ם תְּרוּמָה֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה כֹּ֚ל נְדִ֣יב לִבּ֔וֹ יְבִיאֶ֕הָ אֵ֖ת תְּרוּמַ֣ת יְהֹוָ֑ה זָהָ֥ב וָכֶ֖סֶף וּנְחֹֽשֶׁת׃
(1) Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them: These are the things that יהוה has commanded you to do: (2) On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to יהוה; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death. (3) You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the sabbath day. (4) Moses said further to the whole community of Israelites: This is what יהוה has commanded: (5) Take from among you gifts to יהוה; everyone whose heart is so moved shall bring them—gifts for יהוה: gold, silver, and copper;
Rabbi Marc Margolius (from Torah Study Through a Middot and Mussar Lens; IJS Weekly Torah study)
The work involved in building the Tabernacle is understood as a paradigm generally for the six days of human creativity in shaping and repairing the world. And the first step in this process of partnering with God in creating and recreating the world is—stopping. Prior to exercising the divine gift of human creativity, the passage teaches, we are to cultivate stillness. This silence or pauses might correspond to the absolute silence thought to have preceded and accompanied the so-called “Big Bang” of creation. Perhaps we might understand our human Shabbat as analogous to the pauses between the gravitational waves within space itself. If such pauses are woven into the fabric of creation, our passage can be seen as a reminder to us that if we are to use our gift of creativity for sacred ends, we must exercise our capacity for stillness and silence prior to speaking and/or taking action
The work involved in building the Tabernacle is understood as a paradigm generally for the six days of human creativity in shaping and repairing the world. And the first step in this process of partnering with God in creating and recreating the world is—stopping. Prior to exercising the divine gift of human creativity, the passage teaches, we are to cultivate stillness. This silence or pauses might correspond to the absolute silence thought to have preceded and accompanied the so-called “Big Bang” of creation. Perhaps we might understand our human Shabbat as analogous to the pauses between the gravitational waves within space itself. If such pauses are woven into the fabric of creation, our passage can be seen as a reminder to us that if we are to use our gift of creativity for sacred ends, we must exercise our capacity for stillness and silence prior to speaking and/or taking action
Yael Shy (from The Silent Center of Things; IJS weekly Torah study)
This instruction on Shabbat is dropped into the text exactly at this precarious moment between the sin of the Golden Calf and the creation of the Mishkan. It is the pausing point that turns the Israelites’ anxious energy into creative, heart-swelling, devotion to what is true. In between the fires of idol worship and the fires of creating a sanctuary there is a silence that requires the Israelites to be with what is. To take a break. To kindle no fires. Shabbat is one of Judaism’s most powerful, countercultural, radically mindful inventions. Shabbat says rest is sacred. Shabbat says stop doing and just be. Even when it comes to building a holy sanctuary for the divine, God says that the best gift, the most important sacrifice, is not any place, object or action. Rather, it is time itself. It is being ourselves, now, as we are, without doing or making or creating anything extra.
This instruction on Shabbat is dropped into the text exactly at this precarious moment between the sin of the Golden Calf and the creation of the Mishkan. It is the pausing point that turns the Israelites’ anxious energy into creative, heart-swelling, devotion to what is true. In between the fires of idol worship and the fires of creating a sanctuary there is a silence that requires the Israelites to be with what is. To take a break. To kindle no fires. Shabbat is one of Judaism’s most powerful, countercultural, radically mindful inventions. Shabbat says rest is sacred. Shabbat says stop doing and just be. Even when it comes to building a holy sanctuary for the divine, God says that the best gift, the most important sacrifice, is not any place, object or action. Rather, it is time itself. It is being ourselves, now, as we are, without doing or making or creating anything extra.
Rabbi Alyson Solomon (from “A Practice: To Live Life as a Contribution”)
In parshat Va’yakhel we find the Israelites, convoked, regally assembled at the bottom of the mountain. Moses tells the community eleh d’varim, “these are the things” that connect us to YHVH – the Source (35:1-4). This we spend six days creating: we weave, paint, send emails, drive carpools, buy, trade, and cook—and on the seventh day, we rest. On Shabbat, we take in the beauty and grandeur of creation and are renewed, re-created.
Interestingly, in the very next verse (35:5) Moses says zeh ha’davar, “this is the thing” that connects us to YHVH—the Source: to make “an offering to God.” The verse continues, “anyone whose heart moves them should bring an offering to God.” The Torah then lists various offerings one might set aside as gifts to God: gold and copper, fine linens, animal skins and precious stones. All of these will be collected and used to build the Tabernacle (Mishkan), the portable sacred shrine our ancestors carried with them through the wilderness.
What is the relationship between these two verses? The first states that “these are the things,” referring to the six days of work and the Sabbath; the second declares, “This is the thing,” referring to the special offerings the people were to give to God and the Mishkan.
One way of understanding the relationship between these two verses is that the second verse—which includes zeh ha d’var—can help us understand how to apply the command in verses 1-5 to live holy lives, both during the six days of the week and on the Sabbath. That is to say, by viewing all our days as opportunities to “gift” or “offer up” ourselves—our passions, talents and expertise—to God in an effort to create a Tabernacle-like world suffused with holiness. It is crucial in this reading that the Torah includes a concrete list of items and invites all “whose heart moves them” (verse 5) to participate in this sacred endeavor.
In parshat Va’yakhel we find the Israelites, convoked, regally assembled at the bottom of the mountain. Moses tells the community eleh d’varim, “these are the things” that connect us to YHVH – the Source (35:1-4). This we spend six days creating: we weave, paint, send emails, drive carpools, buy, trade, and cook—and on the seventh day, we rest. On Shabbat, we take in the beauty and grandeur of creation and are renewed, re-created.
Interestingly, in the very next verse (35:5) Moses says zeh ha’davar, “this is the thing” that connects us to YHVH—the Source: to make “an offering to God.” The verse continues, “anyone whose heart moves them should bring an offering to God.” The Torah then lists various offerings one might set aside as gifts to God: gold and copper, fine linens, animal skins and precious stones. All of these will be collected and used to build the Tabernacle (Mishkan), the portable sacred shrine our ancestors carried with them through the wilderness.
What is the relationship between these two verses? The first states that “these are the things,” referring to the six days of work and the Sabbath; the second declares, “This is the thing,” referring to the special offerings the people were to give to God and the Mishkan.
One way of understanding the relationship between these two verses is that the second verse—which includes zeh ha d’var—can help us understand how to apply the command in verses 1-5 to live holy lives, both during the six days of the week and on the Sabbath. That is to say, by viewing all our days as opportunities to “gift” or “offer up” ourselves—our passions, talents and expertise—to God in an effort to create a Tabernacle-like world suffused with holiness. It is crucial in this reading that the Torah includes a concrete list of items and invites all “whose heart moves them” (verse 5) to participate in this sacred endeavor.
Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld (from Speaking Torah: “Betzalel came and healed the wound.”)
Whatever made the people build that golden calf—whether it was lack of imagination, or failure of will, or anxiety and the fear of abandonment—the result was a terrible and terrifying breach. We carry with us the image of that breach in the shattered fragments of the first tablets.
The return from that broken place in our relationship with God is the extraordinary promise of last week’s parsha...
But then there is the next day. According to the midrash, that’s where we find ourselves this Shabbat as we move into Parashat Vayakhel. It’s the day after Yom Kippur. It’s the day after the second tablets. It’s the day after we have taken the risk of starting again. Forgiveness is a profound and important beginning. But then what? What will we bring? What will we build? How will we keep going, keep hoping, keep loving, keep trying again?
This week’s parsha begins with Shabbat—which builds teshuvah into the rhythm of our lives. The possibility for teshuvah that Yom Kippur offers us once a year, Shabbat holds out for us every week. Every week, we get a chance to stop—which means we get a chance to start again. And the mishkan builds teshuvah into the beating heart of our community. The Sefat Emet says: “The work of the sanctuary bears witness for all generations, calling out to us that even when sin separates us from God, the love in our hearts is never extinguished.”
This is the parsha of the next day. May it help us see every day as the next day, an opportunity to heal, to love, to bring heaven and earth a little closer.
Whatever made the people build that golden calf—whether it was lack of imagination, or failure of will, or anxiety and the fear of abandonment—the result was a terrible and terrifying breach. We carry with us the image of that breach in the shattered fragments of the first tablets.
The return from that broken place in our relationship with God is the extraordinary promise of last week’s parsha...
But then there is the next day. According to the midrash, that’s where we find ourselves this Shabbat as we move into Parashat Vayakhel. It’s the day after Yom Kippur. It’s the day after the second tablets. It’s the day after we have taken the risk of starting again. Forgiveness is a profound and important beginning. But then what? What will we bring? What will we build? How will we keep going, keep hoping, keep loving, keep trying again?
This week’s parsha begins with Shabbat—which builds teshuvah into the rhythm of our lives. The possibility for teshuvah that Yom Kippur offers us once a year, Shabbat holds out for us every week. Every week, we get a chance to stop—which means we get a chance to start again. And the mishkan builds teshuvah into the beating heart of our community. The Sefat Emet says: “The work of the sanctuary bears witness for all generations, calling out to us that even when sin separates us from God, the love in our hearts is never extinguished.”
This is the parsha of the next day. May it help us see every day as the next day, an opportunity to heal, to love, to bring heaven and earth a little closer.
Darlene Cohen (from The One Who Is Not Busy, p.96)
Some of us love the frenetic glamour of the "roller coaster ride" produced by a certain working style: meeting a series of urgent deadlines, running on speed and caffeine through the wee smalls, rising a few hours later to present the resulting project to an important client, then crashing right after the meeting to sleep for a few days. We are wound tightly as a coil for days and weeks, then catch a plane to the tropics for a com- plete meltdown as soon as the project is over. There's a lot to recommend this mode of work/rest in terms of its drama, its edginess. It confirms the fact that we are indeed alive, since we might have some doubts. Up through our numbness surges the adrenaline rush of fear and then the soaring relief of triumph. We can feel that aliveness pulsing through our body: The client loved it! The deadline is met! The fee is collected! Yes, we are alive! We know it now! And most importantly, the intensity distracts us from the slowly dawning suspicion that our life means nothing, that all our efforts have not brought us any closer to happiness.
Some of us love the frenetic glamour of the "roller coaster ride" produced by a certain working style: meeting a series of urgent deadlines, running on speed and caffeine through the wee smalls, rising a few hours later to present the resulting project to an important client, then crashing right after the meeting to sleep for a few days. We are wound tightly as a coil for days and weeks, then catch a plane to the tropics for a com- plete meltdown as soon as the project is over. There's a lot to recommend this mode of work/rest in terms of its drama, its edginess. It confirms the fact that we are indeed alive, since we might have some doubts. Up through our numbness surges the adrenaline rush of fear and then the soaring relief of triumph. We can feel that aliveness pulsing through our body: The client loved it! The deadline is met! The fee is collected! Yes, we are alive! We know it now! And most importantly, the intensity distracts us from the slowly dawning suspicion that our life means nothing, that all our efforts have not brought us any closer to happiness.
Rabbi Chai Levy (from “Creating a Sacred Place of Connectedness” in Torah Without End, p.44-45)
The building of the Mishkan is a metaphor for our shared, sacred purpose to create in our world a Divine dwelling place. In para- shat Vayakhel, offerings are contributed abundantly, and the skilled craftspeople (literally, those with "heart wisdom") construct the various parts of the Mishkan. As the Mishkan is assembled, the Torah conveys a sense of unity and connectedness: "...they connected the units to one another with the clasps so that the Tabernacle became one whole." (Exodus 36:13)
This connectedness is in striking contrast to the divisions that afflict communities today. With so much that can divide us, how do we create the Mishkan's sense of unity, of coming together in shared, sacred purpose?
In his commentary, Mei Hashiloach, Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner (1801-1854), "the Ishbitzer," offers an answer to this question. He notes that this parashah opens with the reminder to observe Shab- bat, just before the construction of the Mishkan. Why? The Ishbitzer explains that the essence of Shabbat is that which is done "for the sake of Heaven" and "so that the Shekhinah will dwell." So too, all the work of the Mishkan was done with that intention of "Shabbat."
They saw the connectedness ("chibur") that connected together all the work, all the cloths and all the planks; they saw that everyone was connected to each other, as if the work had been done by one person...how could one possibly feel superior over another, knowing that it wasn't done with one's own wisdom, but only with God's help... Their hearts were connected, for the Shekhinah could not dwell if even one peg were missing. Therefore, one couldn't feel superior to another at all, even the one who made the ark over the one who made the pegs for the courtyard.
The Ishbitzer interprets the juxtaposition of Shabbat and the Mishkan to mean that the essence of Shabbat infused the construction. That is, there was a nullification of the ego, of arrogance, and of the individual's self-focused needs in service of the shared work of creating a sacred place for the Divine. This communal project meant that everyone's contribution, no matter how small, was essential, and everyone felt connected to each other in humbly offering whatever God had given them to offer. The Ishbitzer concludes: that is why this parashah begins with "Moses gathered together all the community of Israel." (Exodus 35:1)
As guidance for practice, this teaching from Mei Hashiloach invites us to reflect on how we show up in communal spaces. Are we there to serve our own ego needs? Or are we contributing "heart wisdom" that serves to create a Divine dwelling place where all feel connected?
The building of the Mishkan is a metaphor for our shared, sacred purpose to create in our world a Divine dwelling place. In para- shat Vayakhel, offerings are contributed abundantly, and the skilled craftspeople (literally, those with "heart wisdom") construct the various parts of the Mishkan. As the Mishkan is assembled, the Torah conveys a sense of unity and connectedness: "...they connected the units to one another with the clasps so that the Tabernacle became one whole." (Exodus 36:13)
This connectedness is in striking contrast to the divisions that afflict communities today. With so much that can divide us, how do we create the Mishkan's sense of unity, of coming together in shared, sacred purpose?
In his commentary, Mei Hashiloach, Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner (1801-1854), "the Ishbitzer," offers an answer to this question. He notes that this parashah opens with the reminder to observe Shab- bat, just before the construction of the Mishkan. Why? The Ishbitzer explains that the essence of Shabbat is that which is done "for the sake of Heaven" and "so that the Shekhinah will dwell." So too, all the work of the Mishkan was done with that intention of "Shabbat."
They saw the connectedness ("chibur") that connected together all the work, all the cloths and all the planks; they saw that everyone was connected to each other, as if the work had been done by one person...how could one possibly feel superior over another, knowing that it wasn't done with one's own wisdom, but only with God's help... Their hearts were connected, for the Shekhinah could not dwell if even one peg were missing. Therefore, one couldn't feel superior to another at all, even the one who made the ark over the one who made the pegs for the courtyard.
The Ishbitzer interprets the juxtaposition of Shabbat and the Mishkan to mean that the essence of Shabbat infused the construction. That is, there was a nullification of the ego, of arrogance, and of the individual's self-focused needs in service of the shared work of creating a sacred place for the Divine. This communal project meant that everyone's contribution, no matter how small, was essential, and everyone felt connected to each other in humbly offering whatever God had given them to offer. The Ishbitzer concludes: that is why this parashah begins with "Moses gathered together all the community of Israel." (Exodus 35:1)
As guidance for practice, this teaching from Mei Hashiloach invites us to reflect on how we show up in communal spaces. Are we there to serve our own ego needs? Or are we contributing "heart wisdom" that serves to create a Divine dwelling place where all feel connected?
Yael Shy
The response to bringing our whole heart back into our work, supported and enhanced by periods of rest and stillness, pours life back into everyday life that can feel empty and hollow. It can transform “busyness” to “fullness.” This is illustrated in the last few paragraphs of Pekudei: 34 And the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the glory of the One filled the Mishkan.
לד וַיְ ַכס ֶׁה ָענָן ֶׁאת אֶֹׁהל מֹו ֵׁעד ּו ְכבֹוד יְהֹוָה ָמ ֵׁלא ֶׁאת ַה ִמ ְש ָכן:
Just as God’s kavod, God’s glory, fills the new Mishkan, making it complete or whole, our lives are made whole through the connection of our heart and our work.
The response to bringing our whole heart back into our work, supported and enhanced by periods of rest and stillness, pours life back into everyday life that can feel empty and hollow. It can transform “busyness” to “fullness.” This is illustrated in the last few paragraphs of Pekudei: 34 And the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the glory of the One filled the Mishkan.
לד וַיְ ַכס ֶׁה ָענָן ֶׁאת אֶֹׁהל מֹו ֵׁעד ּו ְכבֹוד יְהֹוָה ָמ ֵׁלא ֶׁאת ַה ִמ ְש ָכן:
Just as God’s kavod, God’s glory, fills the new Mishkan, making it complete or whole, our lives are made whole through the connection of our heart and our work.